


Pumpkin Carving

by Theo-Sev (Sevv7)



Category: Leverage
Genre: (But they all have their ghosts), Domestic Fluff, Eliot Spencer's Cooking, Geekin' in the kitchen, Halloween, Multi, Pumpkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevv7/pseuds/Theo-Sev
Summary: “I wanna carve a pumpkin,” Parker says one day.Eliot’s eyes flicker up from his book and dart towards Hardison. “Parker,” he sighs, “it’s August.”Or, a snapshot into the quiet in-between-jobs domesticity of the OT3, where Eliot helps give his partners the Halloween they deserve.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 32
Kudos: 99





	Pumpkin Carving

“I wanna carve a pumpkin,” Parker says one day.

Eliot’s eyes flicker up from his book and dart towards Hardison. “Parker,” he sighs, “it’s August.”

“So?”

“So…” he trails off with a noise in the back of his throat, and shoots Hardison _that_ look. The one that means something needs to be explained to her, only she doesn’t know what.

“Pumpkins are a Halloween thing,” Hardison says.

Oh. She actually _does_ know that. Kind of irrelevant though - since when did any of them care about following the rules?

“Tell you what,” Eliot murmurs sleepily, eyes back on his book again, “when it gets to October we’ll go pumpkin picking and I’ll teach you how to carve ‘em. That sound good?”

Parker nods and decides that her pumpkin’s going to have bats. Beautiful black silhouettes, climbing into the sky that she can only fall from. Flitting from place to place with nothing to call home except each other and a bad reputation they did nothing to earn. She’s always like bats.

A soft thud from the other side of the room reveals the book’s slipped from Eliot’s fingers and he’s snoring softly, stretched out across the couch, head resting on Hardison’s thigh. Hardison’s smiling like he’s about to cry, soft and full of some emotion Parker can never quite place. Love, maybe. That’s how she feels at least.

She forgets about pumpkins and Halloween and bats; her whole world is right there on that couch.

* * *

She doesn’t remember the conversation until Eliot’s turning his Chevy Silverado up a small dirt track in what looks to be the middle of nowhere.

The car shakes a little on the uneven terrain, and Eliot winces everytime they drive through muddy water and it splashes up the side of his car.

“See, _this_ is why I didn’t take the Challenger,” he tells Hardison, who’s been bickering good naturedly about how they’d be there already if Eliot had driven them in his ‘fun’ car.

Parker understands the dress code now. Eliot had said dress warm and waterproof, bring a spare pair of socks just in case, don’t bother with gloves.

“Pumpkins?” she asks, already spotting the telltale splodges of orange littering the fields they’re driving through.

Eliot grins, eyes bright. He tilts his head just a little so he can watch her in the interior mirror. “You thought I forgot,” he tells her.

She did. _She_ forgot. But it’s coming back to her, the bats, the smell of pumpkin pie, candy and fake cobwebs. All the things she thinks she knows Halloween should be about but never got to experience.

“How the hell’d you remember that, dude?” Hardison exclaims. “I remember that night and you fell asleep on my leg for three hours. _Three hours.”_

Eliot’s shoulders tense and then relax, it’s all Parker can make out from her seat in the back. “Shut up man, it was right after the Yielder job.”

He sounds defensive but his body says otherwise. Like he’s playing a role. Like he’s pretending to be the old Eliot. The one before the hugging and the kissing, the moving in and the exchange of rings.

Colours flash past the window; the dazzling gold of the autumn sun, hanging low in the sky, picks out the browns and reds and oranges from crunchy looking leaves, and hints of green as the last remnants of summer ebb away.

Eventually they pull over by a wooden gate. Eliot hops out and hands over a roll of bills to the pig-tailed girl perched on the fence. She looks maybe thirteen, dressed in overalls and sensible sturdy boots that Eliot compliments as he ushers Parker and then Hardison out of the car.

“We gotta climb the gate?” Haridson asks, unimpressed.

But Parker’s already over it, spinning out into the field lined with hundreds of rows of pumpkins. All sizes, green fading to orange, deep and warm.

There’s a chill in the air, it feels fresh and cold when she inhales deeply. The wind is low, but there just enough that it lifts at the loose strands of her hair, pushing them over her face as she gazes out in wonder. It’s caught Eliot’s hair too, he hops the gate easily and scowls as he tries to smooth it over with a hand. Hardison’s close behind, still grumbling but his smile says he doesn’t mean it.

“Now what?” Parker asks, bouncing alongside them both.

“Pick a pumpkin,” Eliot grins.

“ _Any_ pumpkin?”

He nods, eyes warm, glances at Hardison and adds, “One each.”

Hardison lights up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They keep talking, it fades to background noise. Parker’s already halfway down the first row. There’s a tang in the air, pumpkins don’t smell too much like their pie counterpart, at least not how Eliot makes it, with cinnamon and nutmeg, and dusted with far too much icing sugar because that’s the only bit he lets Parker do.

She keeps walking, the perfect pumpkin is here for her, somewhere in this field. She doesn’t know if it’s a big one or a small one, whether it’s tall or short, or perfectly round. She’s excited to find out.

Across the field Hardison waves at her with a mittened hand. The wind’s catching his scarf and billowing it out behind him, like the cape from his new orc character he’d spent half an hour telling her about last week. He looks happy. He’s always happy around this time of year. He doesn’t tell many Halloween stories from his childhood, but he’s certainly been making up for it in his adult years.

“Any luck?” Eliot calls from where he’s stationed himself by the gate. He’s got one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun. Everything about his stance is loose and relaxed, up to the half smile he’s wearing easily.

Parker shakes her head and cups her hands around her mouth. “Not yet!” she calls back.

The pumpkins in this part of the field are still a bit too green, and she’s dreaming of the perfect orange, one that would make even Hardison’s soda jealous. She cuts through the rows, heading to the bottom corner of the field. A few tiny pumpkins catch her eye as she moves, they’re cute but she wants something she can _carve._

“Hey Eliot! Help me with this,” she hears Hardison say distantly, and there’s the sound of heavy boots crunching over earth and a throaty chuckle.

“Man that gotta be the weirdest looking…”

She’s out of earshot again, heading towards The One, nearly skipping. It’s exactly what a pumpkin should be, big and round and orange, but imperfect, real. It’s heavy in a good way, solid. She hoists it up using both arms and heads back.

Eliot and Hardison are perched on the gate when she gets to them.

“I got it,” she says, slightly breathless from the slope of the field and the weight in her arms. She lifts it proudly for them to assess

“Good choice,” Eliot says, jabs a thumb in Hardison’s face and continues, “Not like this guy, like a fucking egg.”

“It’s _tall_ ,” Hardison defends, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with tall.”

Eliot claps him on the shoulder, a disguise to pull him closer. “Sure man.”

“What about you Eliot - where's yours?” Parker asks.

He looks pointedly at the closest pumpkin in the field. “You’re lookin’ at it.”

“But… there’s so many. You aren’t even going to look?”

He shrugs, eyes distant and unfocused. “Nah… used to do it like this back in… back when…” 

Hardison leans closer, knocks his forehead against Eliot’s cheek. Silence settles, it’s peaceful but it’s still Halloween. None of them are without their ghosts.

“Come on then,” Eliot says eventually, jumping down to claim his pumpkin. “Still lots to do today.”

* * *

“So many pies,” Parker murmurs, elbow deep in pumpkin.

Eliot already scraped his own out in demonstration and he’s down in the Brewpub now, steaming it to make puree and prepping pastry for the pie crusts.

“Who knew pumpkins had so much… pumpkin in them,” Hardison agrees, wiping a sticky hand on the front of the apron Eliot leant him. “Never done this before,” he adds.

“Me neither.”

Memories of times she asked lodge themselves uncomfortably in her mind.

_“Sorry kid…”_

_“...Don’t be ridiculous…”_

_“...No.”_

She doesn’t want them. Halloween means something different now. Not that, never that, ever again.

Hardison’s watching her with sad eyes. She’s probably pulling that face again, the one he and Eliot tell her she gets sometimes when her mind’s far away. She doesn’t want to worry them though, they’re just memories. She shrugs it off, concentrates on the feel of the pumpkin she’s working on, cold and sticky against her fingers.

“What are you going to carve?” she says after a long moment.

Hardison blinks, once, twice, and then he’s with her, grinning as he thinks. “I saw this one of the Death Star-”

“-No.” Eliot’s in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and a bandana stopping his hair from flopping onto his face.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Hardison grumbles.

Eliot laughs. “Let’s work up to the big leagues, yeah? Start easy this year. Maybe you can make your stupid Star Wars thing in a couple years.”

“Hah,” Hardison points his spoon in Eliot’s direction, “you knew it was a Star Wars thing.” He wiggles his shoulders happily. Eliot rolls his eyes.

“Looks like you’re about done scraping,” he notes with approval. “Wanna move on to carving?”

Parker joins Hardison’s dancing. “Carve! Carve! Carve!” she cheers.

Eliot pulls out three knives from a drawer. Not his best ones - only he gets to use those ones, on pain of death - but not bad ones either.

“Gotta decide what you’re doing first,” he tells them as he passes them a knife each, handle first. “Practice, or draw it on. No cuts ‘til you're sure.” A private smile flits over his face and Parker wonders what he’s remembering.

“Bats,” she says.

“That’ll work,” Eliot nods, “Hardison?”

“Um. Okay.” Hardison pauses, frowns, grins. “King Boo.”

“What?”

“King Boo.”

“The- the ghost from the racing game?” splutters Eliot.

Hardison looks way too pleased with himself. “Among other things. It’s Halloween, he’s a ghost.”

Eliot takes a measured breath and composes himself. “Fine. Do the stupid ghost.”

“Age of the geek, baby,” Hardison quips. And like he just can’t help himself, Eliot’s grabbing the top of his apron with a fist and hauling him in for a kiss. Slow and deep. The kind that leaves them both flush and slightly out of breath.

They break away from each other - Hardison looking especially delighted - and two sets of eyes fall to Parker, ‘ _you want in on this?’_

She considers seriously. They’re very hot together and she loves them very much, but… pumpkins. “Maybe later,” she says, and they grin.

Carving is harder than she expected, the pumpkin is thick and tough, and every cut takes effort. Eliot makes her take a break when her wrist starts aching, tells her, “It’s shapin’ up real good.”

His is nearly done; it’s a face, angry eyes and a jagged mouth with far, far too many teeth.

“Wonder why _your_ wrist ain’t aching,” Hardison says with a wink, massaging his own with his other hand.

Eliot sighs, but he’s smirking. “Hey man, if you’re offerin’…”

Outside is turning gloomy as grey clouds rush over the sun; Hardison flicks the lights on, washing the room with bright warmth. The satisfying sound of wet tearing accompanies each pull of their knives.

“Used to do this with my sister,” Eliot says, too casual, like it’s not the first time he’s mentioned her in almost six months.

Hardison glances at Parker and sounds cautious when he says, “Yeah?”

Eliot hums. “Her’s were always better than mine. Real artist, when she was young.” He flips his knife a couple of times, looking hard at a point on the wall.

“Had a foster sister once who stole a bag of bell peppers from the kitchen ‘cause we couldn’t all have pumpkins, taught me how to carve ‘em,” Hardison offers, his voice gentle.

Eliot snorts and raises an eyebrow. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Left the candle burning too long,” he shrugs. “Not a good look.”

They laugh together.

Parker’s bats finally begin to take shape after Eliot lightly grips her wrist and shows her a better cutting technique. “All about the context,” he says in a low voice, more to himself than to her.

She does a big bat first, and then keeps going, making them smaller each time until they’re filling in all the spaces.

“A group of bats is called a cauldron,” she informs the room.

Hardison’s head pops up from behind his pumpkin where he’s been crouching to get a better angle. “Huh. I did not know that.”

Eventually she’s stepping back to admire her work. It looks good. Hardison’s and Eliot’s too. All good, all different.

Kind of like the three of them.

“Do we light them now?” she asks, excitement bubbling into her voice.

“Not quite, gotta wait until it’s dark,” Eliot says. “You can help with the pie though?”

He fetches the pumpkin puree and the pie crusts from downstairs while Parker and Hardison clean the table. Parker wonders if he’ll let her just eat pie for tea. It’s unlikely, but neither would it be the first time.

“Can I do the spices?” Parker asks, once Eliot’s gathered and deposited the ingredients on the table.

He taps a finger on his jaw. “If you promise you’ll measure them this time.”

As requested, Parker uses the small measuring spoons to add cinnamon and nutmeg to Eliot’s bowl while he cracks eggs. The air smells sweet and warm, while dusk is finally beginning to settle outside.

Eliot’s hands move with practiced efficiency as he adds the puree to the other ingredients and mixes, hard and fast - just like he wants Hardison to take him tonight, if that kiss earlier is anything to go off. Parker watches him, like she often does when he cooks. There’s something about seeing people doing what they love that fascinates her and fills her with joy all at the same time, and it’s compounded when it’s Eliot or Hardison.

The pie goes into the oven and Eliot disappears into the kitchen to sort out their main meal, ‘accidentally’ leaving the mixing bowl out for Parker to scrape.

“Want any pie filling?” she asks Hardison, who’s sat at the other end of the table fiddling around with one of his laptops.

He shakes his head and laughs when he points to the orange smear of pumpkin on Parker’s cheek.

A familiar pop and sizzle of something being fried comes from the kitchen, and Eliot’s humming to himself again. Parker can’t place the tune, she’s never had an ear for music in the way her partners do; still, it sounds pretty and it means Eliot’s happy.

Something comfortable and soft settles in her chest. A sense of rightness, maybe. They’re all here, safe and happy and together. Parker never really understood quiet domesticity, never really had any frame of reference; but if it’s this, today, she thinks she can see the appeal.

They eat what Eliot serves, shredded chicken and pasta in a rich tomato based sauce. There’s a lot of garlic and what might be a hint of nutmeg, although that might just be the lingering scent of pie. Eliot winks when she asks and tells her, “If it tastes good then it don’t matter what’s in it.”

Probably means he’s found a new way to hide vegetables.

Once they’re done with dinner, Hardison drapes a thin black cloth over the table and gathers up a selection of tea lights.

“Think it’s dark enough to light them now?” he calls to Eliot, who’s back in the kitchen, this time whipping cream.

“Why do you need me to tell you if it’s dark out?” they hear Eliot mutter to himself, and then in a louder voice call, “Sure. Be there in a minute.”

It’s not that he needs Eliot to tell him it’s dark, it’s just… Eliot knows how this works, he’s done it before. This is Hardison’s first proper Halloween. He just wants it to be _right._

Parker knows because she feels the same.

When Eliot appears he’s got three plates balanced up his wrist, like the servers in the brewpub sometimes do. He hands them off, demanding kisses in return for pie.

Parker accepts her plate by peppering small kisses over his cheeks and jaw while he holds back a smile. She finishes with his mouth, kissing him soft and curious so he knows she’s not forgotten about ‘maybe later’. His eyes are bright when she pulls away, _message received._

Hardison goes harder and Parker watches the pretty show they put on for her. Hands skim over shoulders, down waists and tug gently at hips. They’re so good for her.

“How’s the pie?” Eliot asks, a rough edge to his voice as Hardison pulls back.

“It’s cosy,” Parker tells him, because it’s the best word she can think of for how warm and rich and sweet mingle together on her tongue

Hardison looks confused but takes a bite of his own and then nods. “I get that, actually,” he says, surprised. “Cosy… and really good man. My boy can _cook.”_

Eliot’s answering grin lights up the whole room.

“Right, pumpkins,” he says, putting a few tealights into each of them and then pulling out a lighter from his back pocket. “Just don’t get the flame near the pumpkin an’ you’ll be fine.”

Parker accepts the lighter and flicks it to life. The flame dances happily in front of her and jumps onto the candle wicks as if that's exactly where it wants to be.

Hardison does his next, and Eliot goes last.

They survey their work, side-by-side, and then Hardison taps something on his phone that turns off all the lights. In the darkness, Parker finds both of their hands and squeezes tight. Three pumpkins glow in front of her, the only source of light aside from the washed out moonlight filtering in through the windows.

It’s strange how a bit of fire and low lighting can make something so simple seem so magical, how it can fill up something that’s been hollowed out and make it even better than it was before.

“Eliot…” Hardison whispers, “thanks for… you know. This. Today.”

Eliot’s voice comes just as soft. “It was Parker’s idea.”

She nudges him with her shoulder, because a passing conversation three months ago is nothing compared to the planning Eliot’s clearly put into today.

“Thanks,” she echoes, “it was exactly what I wanted.”

* * *

Later, when they’re lying in bed, tangled up in each other and floating on the high of good sex, Parker thinks of another Halloween tradition she wants to try.

“Next year we’re dressing up.”

Eliot groans, although he’s already half asleep.

“Don’t be like that man,” Hardison says, reaching up to ruffle his hair and then falling still.

Parker listens to their breathing turn regular, watches the rise and fall of their chests. She’s not really that tired, but nothing in the world can make her leave their bed right now. She’s exactly where she’s always wanted to be. And it’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween y'all (I know I'm a bit early but I'm fairly sure Halloween lasts all month long..?!)  
> Thanks for reading <3


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